


Responsibilty Is An Urban Legend

by dummythetragedy



Series: Halloween 2017 [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble, Greg is Greg, M/M, Romantic Tension, Sherlock is a Brat, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 10:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dummythetragedy/pseuds/dummythetragedy
Summary: Greg makes some pretty poor life choices. Mycroft does his best not to judge him too harshly.





	Responsibilty Is An Urban Legend

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that cop from Over The Garden Wall? Me too.

A siren disrupts the animated buzz of excited, young chatter that had been filling the spirited night air. The handful of costumed children standing directly in front of the source of noise at the time give the interruption a terrified, deer-in-the-headlights glance before sprinting away with a panicked quickness.

“No running in the street!” Greg yells after them, switching off the siren and taking a swig from his handy dandy bottle of scotch before shouting, “Just kidding, Happy Halloween!”

The miniature Wizard Of Oz crew didn’t give any indication as to whether or not they found the joke funny. But neither have the previous four trick-or-treating groups. Unless you count the tiny Ghostbusters who threw an egg at his windshield and then laughed at his misfortune. Arse holes.

Greg thinks he’s hilarious. Handy dandy bottle of scotch agrees with him wholeheartedly.

He takes another drink from his only company on this terrible, shit holiday and rests his head on the steering wheel of his dad’s car. Does his father know that his oldest son is currently in his missing police cruiser scaring the hell out of random citizens? Irrelevant and unimportant.

Fumbling with the microphone thingy, Greg proudly announces to the world, “Irrelevant and unimportant!”

Good. Now they know.

“Lestrade?”

“No,” His drunk teenage brain supplies before he can even see who it is questioning him at the driver’s side open window. He smartly rethinks his response as his head starts to turn, “I mean, yes. Officer. Officer Lestrade. I’m the police.” He’s a genius.

It’s too dark to see the man’s face clearly, but no matter who he is, Greg just gave a pretty award winning performance. Even he thinks he’s a cop.

“Gregory,” The guy sighs, and the pretentious vibe of that sigh rings more than a few bells, but Greg’s too busy freaking the fuck out to try to figure out the guy’s identity, “Are you intoxicated?”

“No,” His _intoxicated_ teenage brain once again steps up to the plate to attempt getting him in the least amount of trouble as possible. It’s doing a pretty great job.

“He’s lying,” A younger voice speaks up, the outrageous claim contradicting Greg’s earlier belief, “You should call the real police.”

“Screw you, kid,” Greg hunts for something to throw at the little shit, but his quest is immediately impeded by the man opening up the door.

“Get out of the car,” The posh prick orders, sounding oh so bothered. It ignites the rebelliousness that has been lying mostly idle in his veins.

“You get out of the car,” He snaps at the person who is very much so not even in the car. Greg frowns. What a weak comeback. What has he become? Is this what he’s destined to be? Some drunk eighteen year old nobody who steals cars, scares children, and yells nonsense at strangers?

Posh prick takes a startled, half-step back, “Are… Are you _crying_?”

“Gross,” Posh prick junior sneers.

The quest resumes with a _vengeance-_

Posh Prick sticks out his hands and moves them around like he’s not quite sure what to do with them. Greg watches the awkward motions through angry, blurry eyes struggling to understand what the hell it is he’s doing. He figures it out soon enough as the guy unceremoniously shoves him and he find himself toppling into the passenger seat.

“Well, I guess we're done trick-or-treating,” Junior seethes, angstily crawling into the backseat with a slam of the car door.

“This isn’t the last time you’ll be in the back of a squad car,” Greg gathers enough composure to snarl as the man takes his place in the driver’s seat, “I’m gonna arrest both of you f-for assaulting an officer and- and-”

Mycroft, face properly illuminated by the interior car lights, gives him a long, cold stare.

His blood runs cold, rebelliousness receiving a thorough extinguishing at the sight of his…

Well. It’s complicated.

Complicated, as in, Mycroft has been frequenting his place of work (a shitty diner that his aunt has been struggling to keep afloat for over ten years) more than three times a week for two years. The two merely exchanged _looks_ for the entire first year, you know the kind. Greg broke first, asking Mycroft to join him in an extremely casual trip to the cinema. And the floodgates were open henceforth.

The pair have been on more not-dates in the past year than Greg has been on real dates in his entire life. But that’s all they were. They hadn’t even _held hands_ , for christ’s sake.

Still, when Mycroft suddenly cancelled their plans to have a horrible Halloween film marathon with no explanation, Greg assumed the worst. Evidently, he’s a drama queen.

“Hi,” He suavely croaks after the uncomfortably drawn out silence.

Junior, who Greg is just sober enough to guess is Mycroft’s little brother, the infamous _Sherlock_ , makes a noise of unmistakable disgust, “I’m too young to be exposed to this much sexual tension-”

“Hello,” Mycroft speaks as if Sherlock hasn’t spoken.

Greg elects to do the same, “Trick-or-treating with your little brother?”

“Simply accompanying him,” He answers, starting the vehicle, “His initial plans fell through quite tragically.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock hisses, “And don’t pretend like you didn’t steal that entire take one bowl. I saw it with my own eyes. It was _horrifying_. Toddlers were sobbing, Parents were screaming-”

“I’m sorry about canceling,” Mycroft splutters, loudly, probably to talk over his brother, “Familial obligations are-”

“A bitch,” Greg supplies, sitting up straight and putting on his seatbelt, to look as presentable as possible, “I get it.”

“Still,” Mycroft swallows, “I won’t be making a habit out of it. I promise you that your company is much more enjoyable to me than an eleven year old’s.”

Sherlock says something but Greg is able to easily ignore it thanks to the return of the familiar fluttering in his stomach. That’s a heartfelt compliment in Mycroft standards. The man basically just declared his love. Now it’s Greg’s turn. But he’s got to be subtle and cool about it, as well.

“Cheers, mate,” He replies, _stupidly_ , because that’s honestly just another way of saying no homo. Greg is so fucking tired of no homo. Some yes homo is long overdue.

He says just that, essentially.

Mycroft’s lips twitch upward ever so slightly. Sherlock says something irrelevant and unimportant.

“Let’s just get you home, Greg.”

Okay, so, not exactly the amount of relationship progress he was going for. But it’s Greg now, not Gregory. He thinks that’s at least a start.


End file.
